Knockout Games Read online

  Text copyright © 2014 by G. Neri.

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  Front Cover: © Giliane E. Mansfeldt Photography (fists); © Cocoon/Photodisc/Getty Images (eye); © Paul Bradbury/OJO Images/Getty Images (hooded sweatshirt); © iStockphoto.com/kyoshino (static).

  Back cover and interior images: © Greg Neri (note, sorry, surveillance tape, drink, zipper, lockers, wrestlers, finger tattoo, assembly of kids, kissing, crumpled flyer).

  All other images via Creative Commons by 2.0: © Elvert Xavier Barnes Photography (candle); © Mathias Klang (surveillance sign); © Jamiecat (boxer); © andrewmalone (playground); © Thunderchild7 (bloody hand); © Thomas Anderson/PhotoDu. de/CreativeDomainPhotography.com (parking lot); © klynslis (shopping cart); © whiteafrican (phone); © MoonSoleil (redhead); © Joe (arch); © Martin Pulaski/flickr. com (man in shirt); © Stephan Ridgway (casket), © gm.newsted (cityscape); © mhiguera (exploded balloon); © Buzz Farmers (hands holding phone); © Paul Sableman (kid, caution sign, alley way, fire hydrant,); © KOMUnews (sheriff); © ukhomeoffice (arrest); © dvs (shadows); © Paul Sableman/St. Louis Metropolitan Police (police car); © Oliver Ruhm (bike); © Norlando Pobre (cigarette); © David Lofink (red ants); © H. Powers (Chihuahua); © Ano Lobb (Do not chew), © k. dordy (bald head); © Daniel X. O’Neil (white orb); © Mary Roy (gun); © Frank Hebbert (cleaning bucket).

  Main body text set in Janson Text LT Std 10/14.

  Typeface provided by Linotype AG.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Neri, Greg.

  Knockout Games / by G. Neri.

  pages cm

  Summary: As a group of urban teenagers in a gang called the TKO Club makes random attacks on bystanders, Erica, who is dating one of the gang’s members, wrestles with her dark side and “good kid” identity.

  ISBN 978–1–4677–3269–7 (trade hard cover : alk. paper)

  ISBN 978–1–4677–4627–4 (eBook)

  [1. Violence—Fiction. 2. Gangs—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.N4377478Kn 2014

  [Fic]—dc23

  2013036855

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  1 – BP – 7/15/14

  eISBN: 978-1-46774-627-4 (pdf)

  eISBN: 978-1-4677-6594-7 (ePub)

  eISBN: 978-1-46776-592-3 (mobi)

  For Carrie Dietz

  “You’ve got to destroy a few lives on the

  way to where you want to get.”

  —Joe Frank, radio artist

  PROLOGUE

  It came out of nowhere.

  The sound of Nikes charging across asphalt—

  the bounce of baby fat in the black kid’s face—

  the meat of his fist smashing into a random stranger’s jaw—

  I heard the SMACK! from where I was standing.

  Through my lens, I saw the stranger’s cigarette fly out of frame, his eyes rolling back into his head—

  And then he just fell.

  Hard.

  The guy’s head bounced off the sidewalk with a thunk as the boy yelled “Knockout!” His friends rushed in and jumped all over him like he’d just scored the game-winning touchdown.

  I stared at the man on the ground with my camera, his eyes gazing at the sky, blood trickling from his mouth. He looked like a character in a movie.

  But this was real. It was on my screen. But it was real.

  To the boys, it was just a game. Some called it One Hit or Quit, most just called it the Knockout Game. One kid, an eighth-grader with a crooked smile and ketchup stains on his school uniform, noticed the man’s eyes were still open. He grinned at me, the white girl with the camera, and jumped on the man’s head like it was a balloon that needed popping.

  The Knockout King would be proud.

  1

  (months earlier)

  “Pain is a gift,” Mom whispered.

  There was a ringing in my ears; my face burned like someone had just smacked me. But it was only her words that stung. She was going on and on—about how we were leaving Dad, about how we were moving to St. Louis, and how we were going to leave everything behind to start over, just the two of us.

  I felt sick.

  We were sitting by the overgrown pool at our house in Little Rock. I tried to focus on the ripples in the water, but the wind was kicking up and my eyes were getting wet.

  “Things will get better, Erica,” she told me, trying to make it hurt less. I didn’t believe her.

  “It’s not your fault,” she said, but I knew somehow it probably was. It’s been my fault a lot lately.

  I leaned over the edge of the pool until I dropped straight into the deep end. I didn’t care that I was wearing clothes. I let myself sink to the bottom and watched the surface bob and weave. I could see Mom up there, distorted and all bent out of shape. She was yelling at me until Dad came out. They started fighting again.

  Fuck ’em. The water was freezing, but I could stay down here forever. The cold stung for a few seconds, then I felt the pain slowly floating floating away. Who needed it? The numbness came and it felt good to be underwater where everything was blue and quiet and I didn’t have to feel anything anymore . . .

  If pain was a gift, then it sucked ass.

  2

  Right before I was cast into exile, Dad gave me one of those mini HD video cameras for my birthday. I guess he felt guilty for splitting up the family.

  “You always liked movies,” he said, searching for a way in. “I thought . . . maybe you could make your own. Maybe send me some about St. Louis.” He gazed at me with those gray-blue eyes of his, hoping it would help get me on his side. The camera looked tiny, engulfed in his thick fingers.

  “Why don’t you just come and see it for yourself,” I shot back.

  He winced, brushing his rough reddish hair off his forehead. “I will, Erica. When you and your mom are settled . . .” His voice trailed off and I knew it wasn’t going to happen.

  He tried to smile, something I hadn’t seen him do for a while. He pressed the camera into my hands and neither of us knew what to say. I spotted my name and phone number engraved into the bottom of it, next to a little heart. He was a bail bondsman who was used to dealing with drug addicts, liars, and thieves. He was not used to saying good-bye to his daughter.

  I wanted to smash that camera into a thousand pieces. But I took it and turned on him without a hug, running straight to the car, where Mom was already gunning the engine.

  The drive took seven hours. Mom didn’t say much, just let the wind howl through the windows as if it would blow away the past. Normally, her hair was tied back tight in a bun; now she let it fly wild. Her pale blue eyes were fixed on the horizon, searching for something. Maybe a new beginning.

  Through my new camera, I watched the Midwest rush by, but refused to record anything because that’s what Dad would’ve wanted. The camera had one of those flip viewfinders so you could point the camera at yourself and see what you were filming.

  I didn’t like what I saw.

  “This thing makes me look fat,” I said to myself.
<
br />   “You look like a real girl,” answered Mom.

  I turned the camera off. “A real fat girl, you mean.”

  “No, a real girl. Not some skinny, anorexic home wrecker—” she caught herself, and didn’t say anything more.

  She was all tensed up, so I rested my head against the window and stared at myself in the side view mirror. I’m big for my age I guess, but that wasn’t the thing that ruined my freshman year.

  It was the red hair. In grade school, it was cute. Got called leprechaun, the usual little-kid crap. But by my freshman year when I really hit puberty, I blew up and everything got bigger—my butt, my breasts. I tried dying my hair but the red made every color muddy, so I just cut it short and took to wearing hoodies and baggie clothes—mostly to piss Dad off once it was clear things were coming to an end.

  It’s not like anyone was ever going to ask me out or anything.

  When we finally reached St. Louis, we had to go downtown to pick up the key to our place. We had to drive by the only thing I remembered about the city, its one real tourist attraction: the Gateway Arch. A couple years ago, we drove here just to go up in that thing. It was Dad’s idea of a weekend getaway. He talked the whole way out about having gone up there when he was a kid and how you could see forever out of those tiny windows. Told the whole history of how it was built and this crazy elevator system they had that worked like a Ferris wheel and how once you got up there, it felt like there was no way this thing should be standing.

  He’d planned it so we’d arrive just before sunset because that was the perfect moment—Magic Hour. But by the time we got there, we found out the thing was closed due to renovations. Mom was pissed he hadn’t checked online. We had a silent dinner, then they decided to head all the way home rather than spend the night in a hotel.

  That was the last trip we took together.

  “We could go up in the Arch,” I said as we drove by it now.

  She didn’t even look at it.

  We stood in front of our new “home.”

  “Wow, a brick house,” I said. If there’s one thing I knew about St. Louis, it’s that everything was made out of bricks. Every house was brick. Even some of the streets were brick.

  “Matches your hair,” she said. A joke.

  If the house didn’t look abandoned, I might have laughed.

  Our area was called Tower Grove. Most of it was filled with these stately old buildings and majestic parks filled with grand old trees. It’s just that our street looked like it had missed the parade.

  “Do we really have to stay here?” I asked, hoping we could upgrade.

  “It was cheap. Right now, that’s important.”

  We were right in the middle of the city, but you couldn’t tell by standing on this block. A lot of the houses had been torn down and the wild grass had taken over the empty lots around it again. Some of the other houses that remained were boarded up, standing alone like random tombstones in an abandoned cemetery.

  “Can’t Dad pay more? Doesn’t he owe us?”

  She nodded. “Problem is, he owes the IRS more. If he hadn’t . . . spent it, believe me, we wouldn’t be staying here.”

  By “spent,” she meant gambled away. And not just on football games. I guessed home wreckers too.

  We didn’t even get the whole house. It was divided up, so we were crammed up in the attic rooms. When we got inside, it smelled musty, like an old museum.

  We dragged our stuff inside, piled up the boxes and ate some OK Chinese food. After I set up the blow-up mattress, I locked myself into the extra bedroom and listened to Mom pacing the floor until I fell asleep.

  Welcome to St. Louis.

  3

  It was October. The air was harsh, the streets littered with orange leaves piling up in the gutters. I’d missed the first five weeks of school. From the outside, Truman High looked like one of those Ivy League places—brick towers and stone columns, green grass and big knotty trees surrounding it. Inside had a warm glow to it, the sound of students bouncing off the wood floors and through its creaky hallways.

  The metal detector should’ve been a warning, though.

  “Hey, Red!” some girl hissed at me as she passed through security. She gave me a look that said Good luck with that—“that” being my whole appearance. She raised her hands in the air and turned around for the security guard. “Ain’t you gonna frisk me?” she asked him. The guard ignored her like he’d heard that every morning of his life.

  The school was almost all black kids. So not only did my red hair stand out, I felt I was the freak show coming to town. And that was before I had to put on that dumb school uniform. I refused to wear the dress, but the tan pants and white shirt didn’t do me any favors.

  The metal detector beeped and I had to stand there in front of everyone spread-eagled while that tired old security guy waved his wand over me. It beeped when he passed it over my butt several times. He raised his eyebrows, and I reached into my back pocket where my phone was.

  “Can’t use your phone in school,” he said.

  “It’s my first day,” I pleaded. “My mom might need to call me.”

  “No calls,” he said. “That’s the rule. Make sure it’s off or we’ll confiscate it.”

  “Can I just call my mom to tell her I made it?”

  He gave me a look like he was ready to take it right there.

  “It’s alright,” said a sharply dressed man standing in the middle of the hallway. He acted like he owned the place—dark-skinned, shaved head, goatee. He smiled and shook my hand. “A new face. Welcome to Truman. I’m Principal Evans. Miss . . .?” He waited for me to answer.

  “Asher. Erica.”

  “Oh, yes,” he said, like he’d been warned. He looked me over, still holding my hand. I could see him calculating in his head as to whether I would be trouble or not. He made up his mind quickly. “Erica. You’ll have to play some catch-up here. We’ve already been in session five weeks now.”

  “I know. It wasn’t my fault,” I said, looking at the floor.

  “Nobody said it was,” he answered. “I’d like you to go see Mr. Jamison during your free period. He’ll give you the low-down on what to expect here. Me, I’ll tell you what I tell everyone here: Success onto you. Reach high, respect yourself, and respect the other students, and we’ll get on just fine.”

  He told me where my assigned homeroom was and on the way, I nearly ran into a big white giant of a man, standing in the middle of a traffic jam of students. He reminded me of a guard post—towering over everyone else, and had a wall eye which gave him the appearance of looking at two things at once. He had one big eye trained on me, while his other scanned the hallway for trouble. The ID card around his neck said Mr. Jamison.

  He knew who I was. “I’ll be seeing you later,” he barked.

  I sat in homeroom, trying to block out all the kids’ stares. There was one other white girl in class, but she ignored me for some reason. The teacher pointed to the one empty seat and I thought she said, “There’s your destiny.” Then I realized she’d said, “There, next to Destiny,” who was a big girl herself with chestnut skin and a tiny Band-Aid over one eyebrow, like a boxer. She rolled her eyes when she saw me coming her way. When I sat down, she put her hands over my head like she was feeling for heat. She whispered to her friends, “Ooh, this girl on fire!”

  Funny.

  A couple hours later, I sat in Mr. Jamison’s office. It was immaculate—everything in its place, even his perfect crew cut. On his wall was a poster for something called “the Matrix.” It wasn’t a movie poster. It showed the different levels of discipline here at the school.

  He leaned back in his chair; he was going to tell me a story. “When I came here three years ago, this school was a nightmare. In fact, it was the worst school in the city.” He pointed to a framed newspaper clipping on the wall that said so. “The building was falling apart too—bad lighting and plumbing, overcrowded classrooms, and the bathrooms—they were a noman’s-lan
d. Kids were getting bladder infections because they refused go in there for fear of getting jumped.” He leaned forward and smacked a fly that happened to have landed on his desk. “That was before I was brought in.” He picked up the dead fly and dropped it in the trash, then cleaned his hands with hand sanitizer. “I’m what you might call the bad cop—though Principal Evans doesn’t like the idea of having cops stationed here.”

  “Are you a cop?” I asked.

  He trained one eye on me while the other seemed to wander away. “I’m a specialist. The Discipline Specialist. And hopefully, this’ll be the last conversation we’ll have. If you find yourself sitting in this chair again, it’ll mean you are one step away from being sent to one of the alternative schools.”

  I figured alternative did not mean groovy liberal arts school.

  He was looking over my records from Little Rock. He noticed my grades had dropped a lot in the last two years, so I decided to cut him off. “My parents are getting divorced,” I said, hoping it would explain everything.

  He grunted. “This school is filled with single-parent kids,” he said, making clear that was not an excuse. His one eye zeroed in on me. “So what’s your story then?”

  “Um...”

  He was checking out my red hair. “You’ll stand out here, but I’m guessing you already figured that one out. If you get bullied, you can see Alice Lee, next door. She’s the art teacher, but because we cut so much of the art programs, she’s now also the Safe Haven coordinator. She’s the good cop. You get picked on, you see her.”

  He stood up suddenly, his fists leaning on the table. “But if you act out or get into fights with the other girls, you’ll be mine. You act up in this neighborhood, I’ll find you. You break the law outside of that, you’ll wish you had me to deal with. Consider yourself warned,” he said.

  I nodded. I already didn’t want to see him again.

  We had art once a week. That was the first time I met Mrs. Lee. She was always on the move, her long graying hair floating behind her, her big round glasses making her eyes appear like an owl’s—bright and laser-focused. But she was no school marm. There was an edge to her. She wore funky self-painted T-shirts with eyes or ears and sometimes mouths on them. She was all about the senses.